A Girl of the People | Page 5

She was deeply interested in tales of death and calamity, and instantly offered not only to do what she could for the boys, but to go upstairs and assist in the laying out of the dead woman.
"No, no; I'll do what's wanted myself," replied Bet; "ef you'll take the boys I'll bring them down asleep as they are, and I'll be ever so much obligated. No, don't come upstairs, please. Father'll be in presently, and then him and me and mother must be alone; for I've a word to say to father, and no one must hear me."
Bet went back to the room where her mother had died. She was very tired, and her limbs were stiff and ached badly after the long night's vigil she had gone through. No particular or overwhelming grief oppressed her. On the whole, she had loved her mother better than any other human being; but the time for grief, and the awful sense of not having her to turn to, had not yet arrived; she was only conscious of a very solemn promise made, and of an overpowering sense of weariness. She lay down on the bed beside the dead woman, and fell into a sound and dreamless slumber.
In about an hour's time noisy steps were heard ascending the stairs. The littleboys, cuddling close to one another in Mrs. Bennett's bed, heard them, and clasped each other's hands in alarm; but Bet sound, very sound, asleep did not know when her father reeled into the room. He had been out all night--a common practice of his--and he ought to have been fairly sober now, for the public-houses had been shut for many hours, but a boon companion had taken him home for a private carouse. He was more tipsy than he had ever been known to be at that hour of the morning, and consequently more savage. He entered the room where his dead wife and his young daughter lay, cursing and muttering,--a bad man every inch of him--terrible just then in his savage imbecility.
"Bet," he said, "Bet, get up. Martha, I want my cup of tea. Get it for me at once--I say, at once! I'm an hour late now for the docks, and Jim Targent will get my job. I must have my tea,--my head's reeling! Get up, Martha, or I'll kick you!"
"I'll get you the tea, father," said Bet.
She had risen instantly at the sound of his voice. "Set down in that chair and keep still; keep still, I say--you'd better."
She pushed him on to a hard wooden chair, shaking him not a little as she did so.
"There, I'll put the kettle on and make the tea for you--not that I'll ever do it again--no, never, as long as I live. There, you'd better set quiet, or not one drop shall pass your lips."
"Why don't the woman get it for me?" growled Granger. "I didn't mean you to be awoke, Bet. Young gels must have their slumber out. Why don't the woman see to her duty?"
"She has done her duty, father. You set still, and you shall have the tea presently."
The man glared at his daughter with his bloodshot eyes. She had been up all night, and her hair was tossed, and her eyes smarted; but beside him she looked so fresh, so upright, so brave and strong, that he himself in some undefinable way felt the contrast, and shrank from her. He turned his uneasy gaze towards the bed; he would vent his spite on that weak wife of his--Martha should know what it was to keep a man with a splitting headache waiting for his tea. He made an effort to rise, and to approach the bed, but Bet forestalled him.
"Set you there, or you'll drink no tea in this house," she said; and then, taking a shawl, she threw it over an old clothes-screen, and placed it between Granger and his dead wife.
The kettle boiled at last, the tea was made strong ang good, and Bet took a cup to her father. He drained it off at one long draught, and held out his shaking hand to have the cup refilled. Bet supplied him with a second draught, then she placed her hand with the air of a professional nurse on his wrist.
"You're better now, father."
"That I am, gel, and thank you. You're by no means a bad sort, Bet-- worth twenty of her, I can tell you."
"Leave her out of the question, if you please, father, or you'll get no help from me. You'd like to wash your face, mebbe?"
"Yes, yes, with cold water. Give me your hand, child, and I'll get up."
"Set you still--I'll fetch the water."
She brought it in a tin pail, with a piece of flannel and soap and a coarse towel.
"Now, wash--wash and